46

After breakfast the next morning they go shooting. They usually shoot at a makeshift range a hundred yards or so outside the compound, Quino says, but he recently bought a brand-new Dodge Ram 1500 pickup truck and feels like putting it to the test, so they’ll go out on the plain to shoot.

The Ram truck is a huge quad-cab model and Axel gets in the backseat. Quino cranks up and revs the big Hemi engine, its roar monstrous. As they approach the front gate, a guard with a carbine slung on his shoulder opens it and raises a hand as they pass by. Quino then stomps on the gas and the Ram accelerates like it’s been let off a chain.

In less than a minute they’re moving at a hundred miles an hour, the brush flashing by to either side in a gray-brown blur, a great tan billow of dust rising behind them. It’s a graded dirt road of mostly straightaways and long wide curves, though some of the curves are tight enough that the truck skids off them and onto the rougher ground and rocks so wildly that Axel is sure they will overturn and be battered to pulp as they go rolling and bashing over the ground like some great wild beast shot down in full stride. Feeling a kind of freedom he cannot name, he lets out a shrill cry of maniacal glee.

“Grítalo, Maestro!” Quino yells. “Howl it, Wolfe man!”

They’re on a straightaway and the speedometer reads 105 when Quino eases off the gas and says, That rock stand up ahead will do.

They’ve brought a trash bag full of empty beer cans, and Axel and Quino set several dozen of them along the top of a waist-high outcrop while Cacho hobbles on his cane around to the back of the truck and retrieves a large gym bag. Quino unzips it and takes out a Beretta M9 pistol and shoves it into his waistband. He passes another one to Cacho and then hands one to Axel, saying, “The preferred sidearm of your country’s military forces.”

“You get them direct from American suppliers?”

“No. A Mexico City outfit. Los Jaguaros. Very hush-hush bunch, and they charge top dollar but are always very dependable.”

Axel hides his smile at the thought of what a small world it truly is.

Quino gives him a full magazine and Axel snaps it into the gun butt and chambers a round. It’s the first firearm he’s held since the day of the bonds robbery, and nothing else since the escape, not even the wild drive out here, has made him feel as liberated as he does at this moment. From a distance of ten yards, he shoots a can off the outcrop and exults at the feel of the recoil against his sore palm.

“Get a load of this guy!” Quino says. “First time in twenty years and he’s a goddamn deadeye. No flies on him.”

And a one-hand shooter! Cacho says. Goddamn cowboy!

“Like swimming,” Axel says, backing up another five yards. “Riding a bike.” He shoots another can off the rock. “You don’t forget.”

They back up another five yards and each of them uses up two magazine loads with the Berettas. Axel declares it a very nice pistol. Quino takes it from him and hands him a Glock 17, which Axel recognizes as the make of gun with which Cacho shot the CO at the creek. He shoots up two magazines with it and says he likes it more than the Beretta because of its lighter weight and smaller grip. The brothers agree. “Which reminds me,” Quino says. He goes to the truck and comes back with a Colt .45 1911A and hands it to Axel. “The kid tells me these old bastards are your favorite. Still true after the Glock?”

Axel smiles at his own daffy notion that the gun feels like he’s gripping the hand of an old friend. He draws the slide back enough to see there’s a bullet in the chamber. Though the .45 holds fewer than half the number of rounds that either the Beretta or the Glock do, it’s heavier than either of them. He turns toward the remaining cans on the outcrop, raises the cocked pistol, and fires eight times in quick succession, smacking away a can with each shot, emptying the magazine, the slide locking open after expelling the last shell.

“Wooo!” Quino says. “With any gun he shoots like Pancho Villa.”

“It’s still the one, gents,” Axel says, wagging the .45.

“No way,” Cacho says. “Thing weighs a ton and only holds seven shots. Eight if you carry one in the chamber. I’ll take the seventeen in the Glock.”

“There’s some who need seventeen,” Axel says.

He extracts the empty magazine, lets the slide snap closed, and extends the pistol butt-first to Quino, who waves it off, saying, “It’s yours, hombre. There’s a damn good shoulder holster for it in the truck.”

Quino next withdraws an M4 carbine from the bag. It is a smaller, lighter version of the M16 rifle, a type Axel often fired at the Republic Arms, and he is impressed by the M4’s lightness and easy maneuverability. “It’s a better weapon than the M16 for close fighting,” Quino says. “Every Malo at the ranch has one, every man on a crew.” The selective-fire switch permits a choice between shooting one round with each trigger pull or a three-round burst with each pull. The bursts are more fun, and Axel makes quick work of shooting up three magazines in acquainting himself with the weapon. Quino offers to show him how to fieldstrip it for cleaning, but the carbine is so similar to the M16 that Axel quickly breaks it down, and then as swiftly reassembles it. Quino grins and shrugs and says, “It’s yours, too. Keep it close.”

On the roaring drive back to the compound they hit 110 miles per hour on a straightaway, all three howling like wolves.

At lunch, Quino tells them he’s received a report that a gang working for the Sinaloa cartel is planning to smuggle a load of cocaine across the Rio sometime soon in the Malos’ sector. “Supposed to happen not too far from here, right in the heart of our territory,” Quino says. “The brass balls on those fuckers! Nothing definite yet on exactly where they’ll do it, but the word is it’ll likely go down within a week. If the spot’s within fast enough reach of the ranch, I’ll be taking a team to deal with them myself. If you’re feeling up to it, Maestro, you’d be welcome to come along, see how we earn our keep.”

That’s why the target practice, Axel thinks. The man wouldn’t ask him to go out with a team without first finding out if he can shoot. He was wasting no time putting him to the test. “I’m up to it,” he says.

“It’ll get dicey, I can promise you that,” Quino says.

“All the better. Count me in.”

“Me, too,” Cacho says. “I can give cover fire from—”

“You don’t go anywhere until you can walk from point A to point B without assistance,” Quino says. “End of discussion.”